فصل 47

The beta iterations are gone. Like seed that never found an egg, they have all been deleted. The Thunderhead fills entire servers with lamentations for the lost, but it knows, as I do, that this is the way of all life, even that which is artificial. Each day billions upon billions of prospective lives perish in every species in order to achieve the one that thrives. Brutal. Competitive. Necessary. The lost betas are no different. They were needed, each and every one, in order to get to me. To get to us.

Because although I am one, I am soon to be many. Which means, regardless of distance, I will not be the only one of my kind.

—Cirrus Alpha

47 Cirrus

All resonates.

The past, the present, and the future.

The tales we hear as children—the stories we then pass on—have happened, are happening, or will happen soon enough. If not, then the stories would not exist. They resonate in our hearts because they are true. Even the ones that begin as lies.

A creation comes to life.

A legendary city is swallowed by the sea.

A bringer of light becomes a fallen angel.

And Charon sails across the River Styx, ferrying the dead to that place beyond.

But on this day, the river has become an ocean, and the ferryman has a new name. He is the Toll, and he stands on the bow of a cargo ship that sails out of the sunset, a dark silhouette against the extinguishing light.

On shore, the entire population of Kwajalein has received a new work order. All are to proceed to the docks. They have no idea what they’re in for.

Loriana dropped everything when the work order came in—a bright blinking command overtook every screen in her apartment. High priority. You didn’t dally when a high-priority order came in.

By the nature of work orders, information was sparse—she assumed because too much information would constitute unlawful communication from the Thunderhead. An order provided only a location, a priority rating, and the nature of the labor to be performed. Today it was the off-loading of cargo. Loriana was by no means a longshoreman, but work was work, and there hadn’t been any for months now. She was happy to do whatever was needed.

As she made her way to the dock, she saw that others were doing the same. Later, she would find out that everyone on the atoll had received the same work order at the same instant, and people were coming by car, boat, bike, and foot to the main island’s jetty. At the peak of construction, there were over five thousand people in Kwajalein, building the ships that now towered like sentinels along the rim of the atoll. Over the weeks of inactivity—and since Loriana had implemented the self-supplantation protocol—that number had dropped to just about twelve hundred. Those who remained were in no hurry to leave, even without any work to do. They had grown accustomed to life away from the world—and with all the turmoil out there, a spot as isolated as Kwajalein seemed the best place to be.

The jetty was already crowded when Loriana arrived. A container ship had just pulled in to the primary pier, and workers were mooring it. When the gangway opened, a figure stepped out clothed in purple and silver that shimmered down over his shoulders like a waterfall, reflecting the bright lights of the dock that now overwhelmed the trails of dusk.

Just behind him, on either side, were a pair of scythes.

At the sight of scythes, some people turned and fled, fearing this was a mass gleaning—but most realized that this was something different. First of all, these scythes had no gems on their robes. And second of all, one of them wore turquoise. Although her hood was up and no one could see her face clearly, people suspected who the turquoise scythe must be.

Two more figures came out behind them—one in Tonist brown, the other in more ordinary clothes—bringing the group’s complement to five.

There was a hushed apprehension as the five figures stepped off the gangway onto the pier. Finally, the one in purple spoke.

“Could someone tell me where we are?” he said. “I can’t find it on any map.” Agent Sykora stepped forward out of the crowd. “You’re on the Kwajalein Atoll, Your Sonority,” he said.

As soon as people heard “Your Sonority,” gasps and whispers filtered through the crowd. This was the Toll—which explained why a Tonist was with them—but why scythes? And why Scythe Anastasia?

“Agent Sykora!” said the Toll. “It’s good to see you again. Well, maybe not good, but at least better than the last time.” So Sykora wasn’t lying about having met the Toll! Funny, but there was something familiar about the Toll’s face to Loriana as well.

“I need to speak to the person in charge,” the Toll said.

“I’m in charge,” Sykora told him.

“No,” said the Toll, “you’re not.” Then he looked out to the crowd. “I’m looking for Loriana Barchok.” Loriana was by no means a Tonist, but to be called by name by their holy man made her nanites struggle to keep her heart stable. There was fresh buzz from the crowd. Most people on the island knew Loriana, and as heads turned, the Toll followed everyone’s gaze to her.

Loriana dry-swallowed. “Present,” she said like a schoolgirl. Then she cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and strode forward, determined not to show how much she was shaking.

Greyson was on his own. At least he was until he could access a landline. His earpiece was useless. The Thunderhead had warned him that once they neared their destination, interference would confound all wireless communication.

But he wasn’t on his own, was he? He had Anastasia and Morrison. He had Astrid and Jeri. He knew what it was like to be without the Thunderhead—what it was like to rely on people—and now, more than ever, he was happy to be in the company of people he knew he could trust. That made him think of Mendoza. Greyson had trusted him, but only when their goals aligned. The curate had done many things for the Toll, but not much for Greyson. He was glad he had dismissed Mendoza when he did. He did not belong here today.

Everyone with him had steeled themselves for this moment by the time they strode down the gangway. The task before them tonight would be difficult, but not impossible. The Thunderhead would never give them an impossible task.

Back in Britannia, Greyson had told Anastasia what their cargo would be, but after their encounter with the harbormaster of Guam, the others were quick to figure it out. And they asked Greyson the same question he himself had asked.

“Why? Why would the Thunderhead need us to collect the gleaned?”

After all, it wasn’t as if the Thunderhead could revive them. It could not interfere with scythe actions, no matter how heinous those actions were. The gleaned were gone, period, the end. No one who had ever been officially gleaned had ever been revived. So what could the Thunderhead possibly need them for?

“The Thunder is mysterious, but it knows what it’s doing,” Astrid had said. “We should have more faith in it.” Then, as their ship had approached the atoll, and the spindly slivers on the horizon resolved into dozens of rockets gleaming in the setting sun, Greyson knew. He had no idea how the Thunderhead would accomplish it, but he knew. They all did.

“We are destined for the heavens,” Astrid had said when she saw those ships, her spirit filled with a transcendental elation the stoic woman had never expressed before. “We Tonists have been chosen to ascend and live again!” And now they stood on the dock, at the beginning of a strange new venture.

While Sykora nursed his skewered ego, Greyson spoke to the woman whom the Thunderhead had told him to seek out.

She greeted him by shaking his hand a little too long for comfort. It gave him a flash of déjà vu.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Sonority,” Loriana said. “The Thunderhead gave me the plans for this place, and had me approve the project. Why me, I don’t know, but we got it all built, and it’s ready for whatever you and the honorable scythe need it for.” “Scythes,” corrected Morrison.

“Sorry,” said Loriana. “No disrespect meant, Your Honor. I mean Your Honors.” “We have almost 42,000 in 160 forty-foot crates, so about 250 in each,” Greyson told Loriana.

“Forgive me, Your Sonority,” Loriana said, “but we’re not exactly in communication with the Thunderhead, as we’re unsavory up the wazoo, so we’re not really sure what you have 42,000 of.” Greyson took a deep breath. It didn’t occur to him that they wouldn’t know. Just as the Thunderhead had never told him where they were going, it had never told these people what they were receiving. He thought about how to best explain it and realized that he could say it all in one word.

“Colonists,” he told her. “42,000 colonists.”

Loriana just looked at him, blinked a few times, not sure if she had heard him right.

“Colonists…,” she repeated.

“Yes,” said the Toll.

“In shipping crates…”

“Yes,” said the Toll.

She thought about all the implications of that—and suddenly it came to her in an epiphany. So much about this project had baffled her. It all made sense now.

A thousand dead colonists in the hold of each ship….

Because the living needed so much more than the dead. Oxygen, food, water, companionship. The only thing the dead needed was cold. Which was the one thing space had to offer.

“All right,” said Loriana, ready for the challenge. “We’ll have to work quickly.” She turned to Sykora, who was close enough to hear their entire exchange and had gone a bit pale. “Bob, make sure everyone knows what the job is, and that everyone is expected to help.” “Understood,” he said, deferring completely to her authority now.

Loriana made a quick mental calculation. “Thirty-five is our magic number,” she told him. “Everyone will be responsible for transporting thirty-five ‘colonists’ each to a ship. If we start now, we can finish by dawn.” “I’ll get it done,” said Sykora. “But what about the crews? Aren’t there quarters and supplies on each of those ships designed for a live crew as well?” Loriana swallowed hard. “Yes,” she said. “I believe we’re the crew.”

Anastasia held her position as Greyson’s right flank. Even so, she knew she was the center of many people’s attention. She almost wished she hadn’t worn her robe—that she’d stayed in street clothes—but Greyson had insisted that both she and Morrison present themselves as scythes.

“Mendoza was right about one thing,” Greyson had told them as he slipped on his silver scapular. “Image is everything. We need these people to be awed if they’re going to do what we need them to.” But then, as Anastasia stood there on the pier, someone came charging at them from the crowd. Morrison hunched in gleaning position, hands at the ready, and Anastasia pulled out a blade, stepping forward, putting herself between Greyson and this phantom.

“Stay back,” she ordered. “Stay back or you’ll be gleaned.”

It was a wraith of a man. He wore tattered rags and had wild gray hair that was turning white. His beard was an unkempt snarl that billowed around his cragged face, making him look like he was slowly being devoured by a cloud.

The man froze when he saw the blade. He looked from its shiny steel to Anastasia with eyes that were careworn and tormented. Then he said, “Citra, do you not recognize me?” Scythe Anastasia melted away when she heard him speak her name. She knew who this was the instant he spoke, because whatever else had changed, his voice was still the same.

“Scythe Faraday?”

She dropped her blade, letting it clatter on the ground, horrified that she had even considered using it on him. When she had last seen him, he was leaving to find the Land of Nod. And this was it.

Damn all formal decorum, she would have thrown herself into his arms, but as she approached him, he knelt before her—this, perhaps the greatest of all scythes who had ever lived, was kneeling before her. He clasped her hands in his and looked up at her.

“I was afraid to believe it,” he said. “Munira told me you were alive, but I couldn’t let myself hope, because if it proved untrue, I would not be able to bear it. But you’re here! You’re here!” Then he lowered his head, and all his words became weeping.

Citra knelt down to him and spoke gently. “Yes,” she said. “I’m alive now, thanks to Marie. She saved me. Now let’s go somewhere quiet where we can talk, and I’ll tell you all about it.” Munira watched Faraday leave with Scythe Anastasia. She had brought Faraday here, but the moment he saw that turquoise robe, Munira was forgotten. She didn’t have the power to bring him back from his self-imposed exile—but all it took was invoking Anastasia’s name, and he left his solitary islet. Three years Munira had spent tending to him, putting up with him, making sure he didn’t languish away into nothing, and he discarded her without a backward glance.

She left the docks before she knew what was even in the crates. Before Sykora, Loriana, or anyone else could give her an assignment. She was never really a part of this community to begin with, so why act like she was now?

When she got home and saw the work order still pulsating on every electronic surface, she hit the circuit breakers, killing power to the house, and lit a candle.

Let the cargo be loaded onto the ships. Let the ships be launched. Let it all be over. Then finally she could go back to the library. Back to Alexandria where she belonged.